


Abandoned Piero/Sokolov short

by captainbobbin



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Science Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainbobbin/pseuds/captainbobbin
Summary: So I found this while clearing out my files - turns out one late night I churned out like...nearly 2000 words of a Dishonoured fic that may or may not be leading to smut. Not so much part of the fandom now so I'm just going to abandon it here. I won't be finishing it, sorry!Basically, two old scientists get drunk, and Sokolov has a mind full of filth.





	Abandoned Piero/Sokolov short

It had started out innocent enough; after at least twelve hours solid work on refining the whale oil transport system into the arc pylons, Piero and Sokolov had made a break-through, and decided to take a break and reward themselves.

  
Piero barely drank, besides special occasions and the nights where his horrid brain fevers and sleepless nights beckoned cool liquid and a burning throat. However he had learnt a hangover was like throwing a scrap of meat to one of the flocks of plague rats - it turned a loud, dangerous nuisance into a roaring, dark pit of rage and pain - and so since the revival of the throne he had not partook in any liquor, besides perhaps a sneaky small glass of wine or two that helped him unwind.

  
Sokolov, however, revelled in alcohol. He liked the taste, he liked the liberation, he liked the warmth and he, at that moment, very much liked the company. He had become accustomed to drinking practically alone after the late Empress' death, but now, sat with Piero in the chair beside him and each with an empty glass in their hands, things were good.  
A couple of bottles were already empty, most of their contents drunk by Sokolov, and he had just finished a tipple of King Street Brandy; Piero had managed to buy in a bottle, just in case he needed to liberate any withheld information from the Royal Physician.

  
Sokolov poured himself another glass, and downed it quickly and smoothly, letting out a faint hiss as the aftermath lightly smouldered at the back of his throat. It was at that moment Piero sank lower into his armchair, head tilting back and eyes sliding shut. Sokolov watched from the corner of his eyes as the bespectacled philosophers hands relaxed around his empty glass he held on his lap. Many times the pair of them had warned each other and even argued over leaving glasses, food containers and open vials on desks, as one spillage could destroy days or even weeks of paperwork and noted ideas, but the sudden fear that if the glass tipped and the few remaining droplets where to spill over his equals lap seemed far greater than the fear it would get on paper.

  
With an unsteady hand the Tyvian reached over and scooped the glass from Pieros tranquil hands, his knuckles lightly catching the fabric of the front of his trousers. Piero immediately jolted awake and clamped a hand down on Sokolovs, his slight eyes wide and confused.

"What?"

"What?" Sokolov echoed

"What...Are you doing?" Behind his circular glasses, Pieros eyes were unfocused and wide, proof that the wine had gone straight to his head.

"Your glass, Joplin. Wouldn't want you to drop it or make a mess." Sokolov was fully aware that his words were fizzling into slurs, proof the wine had gone straight to his lips.  
Piero blinked, before clumsily standing, catching Sokolov's hands and the empty glass in his hands, pulling them upwards so that they were away from his crotch and closer to his stomach.

"Um...I'll-I'll put it away now, I think."

"Mm?" Sokolov's eyes moved up to Pieros, having been focused on their befuddled hands. Pieros were fascinating to his drunken mind. They were pale, thin, scarred. Years of toiling over papers and metals and inventions had left them calloused and rough. Sokolov mused that his, too, were rougher than they once were. Even as a child and he began painting he noted that the more he held the brush and the more vivid and passionate his movements were, the more the soft pads of his fingers would mar and erode. He tilted his head, watching as Pieros unsteady hands unfurled his own from around the glass. Pieros fingernails were getting long, soon he would trim them. His own were disastrously short; he had taken to biting them while contemplating his next work, as long as no paint or residue from experiments lay dormant there.

  
"I-I should stop drinking now, Solo...Sokoff...Sokolov." Pieros speech took a few attempts to perfect, but as he made a shaky step towards the cabinet Sokolov contained his glassware in, he almost did not get a second chance. As his foot made contact with the floor and he pulled the other to take his step, the tip of his foot (bootless, they had long been abandoned under a workbench) scuffed the edge of his armchair and gravity yanked him towards the floor.

  
Faster than Sokolov realised a drunk man _could_ react, he was stood and tightly gripped the back of Pieros shirt and tugged him back swiftly, saving his rival from a face full of floorboard but instead compelling his back against Sokolov's front, the two of them pressed together. Piero gave a small grunt of surprise, the motion dizzying his already swimming mind.

  
Sokolov was warm, Piero mused. His back was pressed against him and he felt broad and strong and very warm. Who wouldn't be, filled with Tyvian wine and strong, if not vile, brandy? The arm gripping the back of his shirt and pulling it tight against his chest moved from behind him to snaking around him and gripping the wine glass Piero still held. It took it away before and ventured somewhere seemingly far away before returning around Pieros front and gripping his hands. Warm, liquor-laced breath was close to his ear, his hair, his neck.

"Perhaps you got up too soon." Was muttered. "You sure you're alright, Piero?"

  
Something about hearing his first name coming from his rival meant something and heated Piero up more. Something akin but not quite guilt settled in his swirling stomach. He had always called Sokolov by his last name, as had everyone else for that matter. He was used to it from his time at the Academy, but they were colleagues now, perhaps even friends. Piero felt warmer.

  
"Ah....Anton." spluttered out of him before he could stop it, some mystery force laced in alcohol causing all the heat in the world to force its way to his face and the tips of his numb fingers. Then, he repeated it, more boldly. "Anton."

  
Sokolov paused. His train of thought had begun upon its rails and he tried to get it into motion. His arm was around Piero, they were both drunk and unsteady, and Piero, with barely a touch, was calling his name. Everything felt far too close.

He rested his temple on Pieros shoulder. His left ear was against the shorter man's right one. For one of so many ideas, his mind was staggeringly blank.  
It had been far, far too long since he had drunk with another, let alone one he saw as an equal, a partner, in academic terms.

  
A partner...When was the last time he had one not in academic terms? A few months after the late Jessamines death, he surmised, and even then it had been some lacklustre courtesan and he had gained nothing more than to scratch an itch that had built up over time. More than that, when was the last time he had a _male_ partner? His lust for men and women had skewed over time. Women were soft and all curves and cuddles, their bodies gentle little puzzles he enjoyed in figuring out. Men were familiar shapes and strong touches and hair and muscle, puzzles that were trickier to obtain yet easier to figure out and complete.

A soft squeeze derailed his train of thought, the hand around Pieros front now being held in quiet consideration.  
Piero marvelled at their size. They was larger than his own, the fingers longer and very slightly thicker, and as they met with his sleeve a speckling of dark, short hair graced his pale skin, whereas his own limbs were scarcely covered by his faint brownish fuzz. Somewhere deep in his haze addled mind he wondered how much of the ratio of Sokolov's body was hair, and where exactly it went. A soft shudder spiralled through his backbone.

In contrast to Sokolovs sexually vivid past, Piero had a lack of experience, besides a few fumbles between his lectures at the Academy.

"Anton." The bold word was now a low mutter, and the vast heat was now draining from Pieros body.

"I...want to propose an experiment, Joplin."

Sokolov's nose nudged near Pieros ear. First and foremost Piero was a philosopher and man of science. Any kind of experiment piqued his interest.

"Go on, S...Sokolov." He dared not to speak his name in case the heat in his body roamed any further.

"Turn around. Look at me, Joplin." His voice dipped lower, and suddenly Piero felt like the youngest person at the academy all over again. His movement to face Sokolov was slow, and timid. He kept his eyes low and looking at nothing in particular.

One of those great hands cupped his cheek. Pieros eyes kept focused upon a piece of scrap parchment that had fallen under a deck. He dared not look at Sokolov, experiment or not.

" I want to try something." Sokolov tried to plan his words with care. Some part of his gut quivered and he did not like it. Many times he had wooed women and talked men around into joining his bed, but this was different. Piero was a man of equal intelligence, and a man of fierceness and aptitude. He liked Piero, he liked his company, his mind and his friendly rivalry. He couldn't bear the thought of ruining what they had built up after such a long time of envy and hatred.

But, as with all science, with nothing ventured there is nothing gained.

"If you don't want it to happen, you just say. But I want to test something." His eyes were on Pieros mouth. His lips were thin and dry, despite his heavy intake of liquid throughout the evening.  
Piero was not conventionally attractive - a lined face from years of stress and study, watery and often bloodshot eyes, and a frame that was all bone and skin that was covered by his heavy jacket. Now stood in his shirt and slacks, Sokolov could see how much they hung off his fellow scientist, and how little meat was on the philosopher's bones. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that Piero was what he wanted, and he wanted Piero to want him too. His eyes were still downcast and his cheeks were red, probably from the drink.  
Piero became aware of Sokolov's arms pulling him closer, and suddenly his face was pressed into his broad shoulder, his spectacles pressing into the bridge of his nose awkwardly. Sokolov's hands roamed his back in almost a soothing manner, and his cheek was pressed against Pieros, the soft bristles of his beard rubbing against him slightly. The warmth within him was dizzying now, and without thinking he clung to Sokolov in return, his hands balling into fists in his jacket.

He swore he felt Sokolov shudder a little before his body was squeezed tighter and a warm mouth was pressed against the corner of his forehead. In return Piero tilted his head closer, his nose pressing against the dark safety of the others' facial hair.

It was going to be either a very long night, or a very short one.

**Author's Note:**

> So, like I said in the summary, I wrote this maybe six years ago and only just rediscovered it deep in my files. I don't intend to expand or finish it, so its just here in case anyone wanted to give me any feedback at all :)
> 
> Sorry for the tease, guys!


End file.
